


This Long and Sure-Set Liking (or, Handsome Exasperated Demon Pounds Angelic Manifestation of The Concept of Temptation)

by Laura JV (jacquez)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), D/s, Facial Shaving, Grooming, Nonhuman Biology, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22174708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquez/pseuds/Laura%20JV
Summary: When Crowley offers to help Aziraphale with a temporary inconvenience, he expects nothing more than an afternoon of pretending nonchalance while serving the angel's whim. Little does Crowley know that Aziraphale is leading him into temptation. With handsome demons (not devilmans), sexy straight razors, and wily angels, this story will prove love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 134
Collections: Hot Omens, Weird Ethereal and/or Demonic and/or Supernatural Sex Shenanigans





	This Long and Sure-Set Liking (or, Handsome Exasperated Demon Pounds Angelic Manifestation of The Concept of Temptation)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Laura Shapiro for cheering section and beta, and Basingstoke for additional beta & title assistance. 
> 
> The vomeronasal organ is a snake's scent organ, in their mouth. Crowley, being a demon and not constrained by Earthly biology, can smell with both his nose and his vomeronasal organ, and taste and smell with his tongue.

Crowley wasn’t sure he was seeing this correctly: Aziraphale was  _ scruffy _ . He’d rarely seen the angel anything but clean-shaven, even when it was the fashion — some reasonably restrained sideburns were as far as Aziraphale had ever gone towards a beard — but here he was, dusted with white-blond bristles on cheeks and chin and neck, and he didn’t look happy about it. Crowley reached out, almost-but-not-quite brushing his fingertips on Aziraphale’s skin. 

“Oh, go ahead,” Aziraphale said, clearly irritated. Crowley let himself touch, and Aziraphale sighed and for the barest, most thrilling instant, leaned into Crowley’s hand, his stubble prickling Crowley’s skin like something holy. “My barber’s on holiday,” he said, his breath warm on Crowley’s wrist.

“You could miracle it away,” Crowley said. “Or shave yourself.” 

“It’s not the same!” Aziraphale cried, pulling away. Crowley dropped his hand. “It’s an experience, my dear, being shaved. The hot towel, the cream, the straight razor — it’s very human, and simply exquisite.”

“Surely there are other barbers? This is London, not — I don’t know, some tiny little rock in the middle of an ocean, not that I’ve ever found you on one of  _ those _ .” (He had. Aziraphale had been pretending to be a monk. Crowley had tempted him back to mainland Europe with figs and wine.) 

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Aziraphale said. “It would be disloyal.” 

“Ah.” Crowley looked at his feet, twitched his nose, and cleared his throat. “If you like. I could. I mean, I used to be pretty good with a straight razor, angel, and I remember what a good shave is like.” 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, and blushed, his eyelashes fluttering. “Oh,  _ could _ you?” 

Crowley refused to look flustered in the face of blatant desire. Absolutely refused. “Sure, angel. I’ll even go get proper supplies, not miracled up.” 

“Why, Crowley, that’s very nearly —“ 

_ Nice. Kind.  _ Whatever adjective Aziraphale was going to use today, Crowley didn't want to hear it. “Don’t say it—“

Aziraphale favored him with that secretive, bit-of-a-bastard smile, the one Aziraphale never showed anyone else, and lowered his lashes again. “I don’t even need to say it, anymore,” he said, and stepped close again, his voice low and intimate. “I’ve said it so often that you say it for me, inside, my dear.” 

The angel really was a terrible flirt, with no intention of follow-through. (Wasn’t he? Wouldn’t he have followed through after Armageddon if he’d intended to? Crowley gave the question up as a bad job and tried not to think about the parts of him that were taking an interest in the proceedings.) Aziraphale was close enough to sip the warm familiar scent of him from the air onto Crowley's tongue, press it into his vomeronasal organ: human accords and cologne layered on top of angelic pheromone, heady and rich. 

“I’ll just — go, uh, purchase things with human money,” he said, pretending nonchalance as he moved away, fumbling for the sunglasses he'd discarded on Aziraphale's desk. “I’ll be back, shall we say, an hour after lunch? You’ll be shaved by tea-time.” 

“Delightful, my dear.”

Crowley managed to keep pretending nonchalance until the Bentley’s door closed behind him, and then he leaned his head on the steering wheel and snarled at his genitals to  _ stay out of this _ . (They didn’t listen, so he changed them. That only made it differently awful. He wondered if he’d been cursed by Someone.) After a few moments of abject despair, he drove off to acquire the necessities.

He knew Aziraphale’s scent by heart, which made it easy enough to track down the correct shaving cream, and although the shop was pleased to provide most of the other supplies, it lacked straight razors. He solved this particular issue by breaking into Aziraphale’s barber's back room and stealing one. (Obviously, he would replace it later, so that Aziraphale wouldn’t pout. Couldn’t have the angel pouting.) 

When he returned to the bookshop, Aziraphale was making bustling noises upstairs, where Crowley had never been. “Aziraphale?”

“Come on up!”

The stairs creaked softly under his feet, and he wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find, but it wasn’t a homely, friendly-looking kitchen with a barber’s chair plopped down incongruously by the sink — though perhaps he ought to have expected it. Aziraphale’s tie was off, and his collar undone; Crowley could see the dip between his clavicles. (The last time he’d seen that was over three centuries ago, when they’d both been at a barn-raising. Aziraphale had let sweat pool there to fit in with the humans, and Crowley hadn’t thought  _ at all _ about licking it clean.) 

Crowley set out his tools in a neat line, and set his glasses down beside them. Aziraphale picked up the shaving cream and made a pleased sound. “You didn’t nick this from my barber, did you?”

“'Course not. Bought it. You, ah. Might want another shave in a few days? Best to have some on hand.” 

“That was very well thought of,” Aziraphale said, looking up at Crowley through his lashes. Crowley, heroically, did not discorporate on the spot. 

“Lie back,” he said, the absolute ruler of the realm of indifference, quite at his ease with Aziraphale obeying his instructions, stretching himself out at just the right height to touch. (Crowley hardly noticed the angel's comfortable sigh as he settled in and lifted his chin. He was far too focused on opening the bottle of oil, and keeping his hands steady.) 

Aziraphale sighed happily as Crowley stroked the oil through his beard, and Crowley refused to tremble. The hair slid beneath his palms, prickled gently at his skin, warmed and softened as he worked the oil in. He slipped his hands to Aziraphale's throat, where the direction of growth changed, let his fingers trace the shape of the Adam's apple (remembering the bob of it on the wall of Eden. It wasn't anything to do with the apple, at all.) 

Aziraphale hummed, his throat vibrating beneath Crowley’s hands, and he shimmied a little. “Lovely,” he said, opening his eyes for an instant, pupils wide and dreamy, before he settled more securely into the chair. Crowley bit his lip and wrapped a steamed towel over Aziraphale’s face, then took a minute to lecture his genitals on their continuing, unremitting interference in his life. (Generally, he approved of genitals; he'd acquired the habit of wearing them in the days of public nude bathing and decided he liked them, especially once he figured out masturbation.) 

When he unwrapped the towel, Aziraphale's skin was damp and soft, and the slick rasp of the badger brush across his beard sent tingles up Crowley's arm. He focused on the foam, the notes of bergamot and lavender rising from Aziraphale's skin, the sound of Aziraphale's breathing, deep and calm. 

Satisfied with the cream, Crowley opened the stolen razor, slid in the new blade, and tilted Aziraphale’s head to the side. The scruff began halfway up Aziraphale’s ear, and he carefully held the skin taut as he slid the razor across, just where the texture changed. It wouldn't do to cut him, even with miraculous healing. Crowley wanted, desperately, to be asked to do this again. He wanted to do this perfectly, today and tomorrow and the day after. He slid the razor down, over the softness of Aziraphale's cheek and the ridge of his jaw, letting his fingers find the places where roughness lingered, where the grain of the softened hair changed. 

Aziraphale's pulse beat against his hands, and Crowley could feel his throat and chest move with his breath, and Aziraphale made soft, appreciative noises as Crowley worked. His lashes fluttered against his skin, and Crowley guided his head back to move the razor over his throat. Aziraphale swallowed, the barest movement under the skin, and Crowley said (lightly, so lightly) "Worried about a demon with a razor to your throat?"

"Never, if it's you," Aziraphale said. 

Crowley paused, drew the blade away from Aziraphale's throat to hide the trembling of his hands. He wanted to climb into Aziraphale’s lap, straddle those thick, round thighs, press their bellies together and follow the path of the razor with his tongue. He wanted to take Aziraphale's head in his hands, run his fingers over his jaw and into his hair -- shaving cream be blessed -- open Aziraphale's mouth with his own and hold him down, make him shake and gasp beneath him.

He cleared his throat. "Well. Honored by the trust, and all that." His hands were perfectly steady as he returned to his work. They didn't dare be otherwise, not with Aziraphale so soft and trusting, so obedient to their touch. Crowley wasn't entirely certain they were his hands at all; he was elsewhere, somewhere he could shake with longing, and yet he was here, too, calm and certain, Aziraphale's skin beneath his hands and his blade, Aziraphale stretched out beneath him, the familiar sounds of London coming through the windows.

Aziraphale sighed happily when Crowley shaved his upper lip, and again when Crowley ran his fingers over Aziraphale's skin, searching for escaped stubble. "Does your barber usually do a second pass?"

"No," Aziraphale said. "No, I prefer my shave not to be too close." 

Crowley nodded, and cleaned Aziraphale's face with a cold towel, and patted on aftershave balm carefully. He lingered over Aziraphale's skin, turned his face this way and that, looking for stray cream, a stray hair, anything -- but of course the shave was demonically perfect. He drew back, reluctantly. "Doesn't look like your hair's ready for a trim, yet, but I could if you need me to." 

“Oh!” Aziraphale’s hands flew to his hair. “No, my dear, he never cuts it. I just miracle him into thinking he has, every six weeks or so.” 

“Why?” Crowley miracled his own hair into any style he wanted, but here Aziraphale was, taking the trouble to go to a barber, and then not having his hair cut. 

“It’s for the best if humans never  _ really _ notice my hair,” Aziraphale said. “I suppose you’d never noticed, either?” 

Crowley, who had spent centuries deliberately and carefully not noticing Aziraphale's hair too much, and not a single sleeping moment dreaming about touching it, and was,  _ genuinely _ , extremely indifferent about it, said, "Well, I've looked at it. It looks the same as always." He reached out, and Aziraphale nodded, so Crowley brushed his fingertips against Aziraphale’s hair, as gently as he could, and then, barely believing what his senses told him, slid his fingers in further, until he was nearly cupping the side of the angel’s head. “Feathers?” 

“Mm.” Aziraphale had tilted his head back, just a little, exposing his throat again (silky from the aftershave balm, the same scent on his skin as on Crowley's skin), and pressing into Crowley’s hand. “I don’t think anyone’s ever—“ and he gave a little gasp “—ever touched them before, come to think of it.” 

Crowley, for his part, had never touched feathers like these. They were nothing like his own sleek wings, but neither were they like the soft down of a duck, or the feathers of any of the hundreds of other birds he'd held over millennia. These feathers were soft, yes, but shaggy, and if he believed his eyes and not his hands, more like hair than anything else. But he could feel where the fine, delicate barbs failed to interlock, feel the shift of the calami, the stiffness where they met the skin. Aziraphale whimpered, his breath a puff against Crowley's wrist, and Crowley curled his fingers back, ready to apologize.

"No, you're not hurting me," Aziraphale said, reaching up to halt his withdrawal, his fingers warm and firm. "It -- it felt good, my dear. I had no idea." Aziraphale's eyes were very bright, and his lips parted as if for a kiss, and his tongue just touched his bottom lip, dampening it slightly, and Crowley cursed himself for ever teaching the angel how to tempt.

Crowley swallowed. "I could, if you like, er. Keep on."

"Oh,  _ could _ you?" Aziraphale said, in that infuriating way he had that always made Crowley's spine try to melt. "Humans do seem to enjoy the head massage part of the experience, and I've never -- well. I always wanted to, but I hate altering their perceptions too much, and--"

"Yeah. 'Course. Anything you like, angel." Crowley cleared his throat and firmly did not think about other things he could offer to do for Aziraphale, with his hands or his mouth or the slick little quim between his legs. “Just...relax. Let me take care of it.”

Aziraphale settled back, looking pleased, and Crowley made a show of rolling out his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. He slipped his fingers back into the soft feathers, traced the bones of Aziraphale's skull and down the back of his neck. He could feel the shift to hair, now that he was feeling for it; he drew back and brushed his thumbs in front of Aziraphale's ears, the softness of the shaven skin below and the softness of the feathers above. 

It was awkward, reaching over the angel like this, so he leaned to get a better angle on Aziraphale’s left temple. Aziraphale shifted below him, laid one hand on Crowley's hip, warm through the fabric of his trousers. “It might be easier, dear, if you -- well." He patted his lap. "There’s certainly enough room in the chair for your knees.” (There hadn’t been. Crowley was sure there hadn’t been, not one minute ago.)

“That’ssss not the usual method,” he said. His entire body yearned towards Aziraphale’s warmth, his deliberate softness, his divine strength. Aziraphale’s hand lay hot and solid and heavy on his hip, and he very carefully did not lean into it.

“When have we been bound by human rules?” replied Aziraphale, unanswerably, and Crowley rolled his eyes, because he was absolutely not going to lose his entire blessed mind just because Aziraphale was — was — without even thinking about how it might  _ seem _ — Aziraphale tightened his fingers on his hip, and looked up at him with that sweet, desirous look -- the one he used when he wanted Crowley to just  _ do _ something, without being asked--

Crowley swung himself into the chair, as if it were nothing. Didn't matter. Could have done it every day and twice on Thursdays, and not batted one yellow eye. And of course Aziraphale was right; the angle  _ was _ better. He sifted Aziraphale's feathers through his fingers, pressed gently along the shafts as if to smooth them into place. Impossible -- they weren't the right sort of feather for that -- but Aziraphale tilted his head into the pressure and gasped, his body shifting between Crowley's knees. 

Crowley did not lose his mind, but he could feel his grip slipping. The angel was going to earn himself a shoving-around if he wasn't careful. (The fact that Aziraphale always took a good shoving-around with wide-eyed interest rather than distress was neither here nor there. The point was,  _ the point was _ , and Crowley was firm on this, Aziraphale needed to be taught a lesson sometimes, about not trying to torment demons.) 

"Oh, I do like it when you touch me," Aziraphale said, breathlessly, and Crowley could not take one more blessed minute of this. It really was beyond endurance; Aziraphale was practically asking to be taken to task. Tease, would he? Crowley would see about  _ that.  _

"Shut up," he snarled, snatching his hands out of Aziraphale's hair and shoving down on his shoulders, hard, pressing Aziraphale into the chair.

"Are you going to kiss me this time?" Aziraphale asked, mildly. 

"What," Crowley said, who certainly had not just heard Aziraphale ask him about  _ kissing _ , he was probably going  _ mad _ , Aziraphale didn't ask about--. 

Aziraphale blinked, with his stupid beautiful  _ eyes _ in his stupid perfect  _ face _ . "Well, the last time you did this -- when we were looking for the Antichrist, you know? In the Satanic convent? I thought you were going to kiss me." 

"I was  _ threatening  _ you --"

"Only," Aziraphale continued, as if Crowley hadn't spoken, "I did think you wanted to, rather badly." 

_ “What,” _ said Crowley, again, and shoved at Aziraphale's shoulders for emphasis, and pinned him firmly with his hips, because this could not be allowed to pass, and --

Oh, oh  _ fuck _ .

Aziraphale was clearly sporting a cock. Aziraphale was  _ hard _ .

"Ngk," Crowley said, and then it hit: the bastard. The absolute bastard. “Are you  _ tempting _ me?” He looked down at Aziraphale, at the arc of his throat laid bare, lips parted, his breathing just a little fast, his eyes wide and sweet. (It was blessed unfair that the angel knew so much about temptation, and even more unfair that the  _ reason _ he knew so much about temptation was that Crowley had cajoled him into the Arrangement all those years ago.) 

Crowley cycled through outrage, admiration, shock, and came through to the other side on a heady mix of devotion and desire that he firmly, clearly, would have denied to the end of the world if Aziraphale hadn't looked so  _ hopeful _ . Every line of his body, his scent in the air, had crossed from his usual coy flirtatiousness into something else, as if he was begging for whatever Crowley was going to do. "Tempting a demon is dangerous, you know," he said, slowly, testing the waters, and Aziraphale's eyes went wider.

"It's not as if you can punish me for it," Aziraphale said, his eyes flickering down to Crowley's mouth, and then away. Crowley's quim throbbed between his legs, tensing around nothingness.

"Can't I?" Crowley said, and caught one of Aziraphale's wrists in his hand. "Who else has the right to punish you?" he said, thoughtfully. "When you're doing things you shouldn't, like tempting demons?" 

"I should think," said Aziraphale, huffily, "that tempting  _ you _ wouldn't count. We're on our own side." Crowley did not want to melt into a relieved, emotional puddle of goo every time Aziraphale said that, not anymore, but he did want to make a happy noise about it, which he repressed with the ease of long habit. Underneath him, Aziraphale huffed, "Are you even a demon anymore?" 

"Pretty sure I am," said Crowley, recovering his equilibrium, and cupped his free hand around Aziraphale's cock, just for an instant. Aziraphale gasped, and his eyes flickered down again, and back up. "And anyway, I think you're hoping I'm demon enough to do  _ this _ ."

He snapped, his thumbnail brushing Aziraphale's cock again, and stripped off their clothes -- Someone only knew where he sent them. Aziraphale was as soft and lovely naked as he was clothed: pink and cream, dusted with silver hair, flecked with heavenly gold at nipples and hips, the great gold scar of his war-wound wrapping over one thigh. Crowley ran his hand down Aziraphale's stomach to his groin. The texture there was like that on his head: shaft and barb, the fine filaments soft on his fingers. "Feathers again, angel?" 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said, sounding shocked, and arched his back, his cock bumping Crowley's wrist.

"None of that," Crowley said, pressing Aziraphale's hips firmly down again, and rose up to let the angel's cock slide between his labia. Aziraphale cried out and thrust against him, his hands flying to Crowley's hips, sweat breaking out across his chest. Crowley bent down and breathed against his mouth, not kissing him, not quite. Aziraphale pressed upward, trying to bring their mouths together, and Crowley tangled his hand into the feathers on his scalp. He held Aziraphale's head back, soft feathers between his fingers, breathing harshly into Aziraphale's open mouth. He growled "No. Not until I say, angel," and Aziraphale whimpered and twisted frantically, fingers digging into the muscles of Crowley's arse. His cockhead slipped over Crowley's clit, and Crowley panted against Aziraphale's neck as Aziraphale did it again, and again. 

"First, make  _ me _ come," Crowley breathed, on an upstroke, and Aziraphale gasped "Yes, yes" and slid one hand from Crowley's hip to his clit, hot and slick and swollen, and thumbed it. Crowley hissed, and Aziraphale took the hint instantly, moved his fingers alongside and pressed the hood in, tugged at it, and Crowley threw his head back, the pleasure rippling through him. 

"Angel," he said, when the wave had passed, "I'm going to fuck you." He shifted until Aziraphale's cock nudged against his entrance, and flicked a fingernail sharply against one of Aziraphale's nipples. "What did I say?" 

"Not until you--" Aziraphale broke off as Crowley took him in, sliding down until he'd taken everything. Crowley held still, panting; Aziraphale's eyes had rolled back into his head and the muscles of his torso twitched under Crowley's hands. Crowley leaned forward and nipped his ear, and rocked his clit hard against Aziraphale's pubic bone. 

"I'm going to fuck you until you beg for mercy," he said, and Aziraphale moaned and took his hips, letting Crowley ride him. Crowley pressed his hands to Aziraphale's chest, found an angle that was delightful but not  _ quite _ enough, and tightened down on Aziraphale's cock inside him. Crowley rolled his hips, over and over, watching Aziraphale's breath hitch, letting the pleasure build until his own legs were shaking, then ground down until he came, shuddering around Aziraphale's cock.

He could let Aziraphale come, right now, with him; afterwards, he could curl up on Aziraphale's chest and go to sleep, warm and petted and loved. But that wouldn't be what Aziraphale needed, what he'd asked for, in his way. Crowley breathed, shook, coiled his strength back in. Took a breath.

"Please," Aziraphale said, when Crowley stilled. His eyes were very wide, his legs trembling. Crowley could feel every breath he took, every twitch of his cock inside Crowley's body. 

"Not yet," he ground out, digging his fingernails into Aziraphale's chest, until Aziraphale closed his pretty, questioning eyes. "You don't get to come yet. Tempt  _ me _ , will you?" 

Aziraphale whimpered and held himself still, his fingers sweat-damp on Crowley's thighs. 

Crowley lifted himself off of Aziraphale and up the barber's chair, letting his feet drop to the floor over Aziraphale's shoulders. "Clean up the mess you made," he said, softly.

"I didn't," Aziraphale objected, and Crowley twisted his fingers into his feathers. 

"Who made me come?" he said. "Who made me this wet? Hm, angel?" 

Aziraphale opened his mouth without further protest, licked Crowley's quim tentatively and then with firm strokes of his tongue when Crowley made noises of encouragement. He buried his nose at the top of Crowley's labia and hummed, and Crowley pulled him back by his feathers, shaking his head. "Not what I told you to do, angel." Aziraphale blinked at him, chin wet with Crowley's fluids, and Crowley wanted him to stay like that forever: sex-drunk, marked, smelling of him. He slid his thumb into Aziraphale's mouth and pushed it open, then shifted his genitals for the second time that day. He pressed his new cockhead in alongside his thumb, just barely inside, Aziraphale's lower lip against his frenulum. "Should I punish you for that, too?" He thrust in, then abruptly pulled away and off the chair, putting space between them.

"No, Crowley,  _ please _ \--" 

Crowley laid a soothing hand on Aziraphale's stomach. "Shut up," he said, moving to stand between Aziraphale's legs with the angel laid out before him, erect and breathless, his fingers clenched on the chair's armrests, a worried wrinkle between his eyebrows. Aziraphale's cock was still wet with Crowley's slick, foreskin drawn back from the red tip. Crowley kissed it, the barest brush of lips, and pressed his fingers behind Aziraphale's balls. 

" _ Yes _ ," Aziraphale said, "please--" and Crowley laughed. Aziraphale had bothered with genitals but not with the rest of human plumbing. 

"Open for me," he said. "Give me sssssomething to fuck, angel." He let his tongue vibrate along Aziraphale's cock, and Aziraphale shuddered and opened under his fingers. Crowley laughed again, because Aziraphale was a hedonist through-and-through: he'd made himself a fully equipped cunt without swapping out his cock. He resolved not to touch Aziraphale's clit at all, because that was simply greedy of the angel. Aziraphale would just have to lay there and take it. Crowley flicked out his tongue, then closed his mouth to bring the scent to his vomeronasal organ. "You ssssmell amazing," he said. "How do you tasssste?" He bent and swiped his tongue over Aziraphale's cunt, the quickest flicker of motion, a tease to make Aziraphale writhe and whimper, enough to flood his mouth with taste and scent, cloying, divine, sweet-salt and metallic.

  
  


Then he took his cock in hand and pressed in steadily, not giving Aziraphale time to adjust, pressed into the warmth and welcome of him: Aziraphale's legs firm on his sides, the roll of soft thigh-flesh pushing against Crowley's ribs, his cunt slick, his voice nothing but whispers and pleas. Crowley fucked him hard, but slowly, watching him fall into the rhythm of it, his body rocking with Crowley's thrusts, his chest expanding, his stuttering little cries of "ah, ah" when Crowley ground in, his cock still hard, tiny beads of pre-cum leaving wet marks on his stomach. Crowley wrapped his hand around it, and Aziraphale shouted but then subsided, quivering, as Crowley shifted the foreskin with his thumb. "Can you come like this?" he said, keeping his touch gentle, teasing.

"Yes," Aziraphale said. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes wet.

"Don't," Crowley said. "Remember what I told you. Wait until I'm done with you." 

Aziraphale scrabbled for his hand, interlaced his fingers with Crowley's. His angelic power hummed under his skin, as strong as ever, and Crowley grinned down at him. "I'm going to wreck you," he said, and raked his fingers down Aziraphale's ribs, leaving bright red marks behind.

Aziraphale tossed his head from side to side, pressing his heels into the backs of Crowley's thighs. "Oh," he said, "oh, my darling, please." 

Crowley bent and kissed the tip of Aziraphale's cock again, hiding his face at the endearment. He fucked Aziraphale hard, pressing bruises into his hips and thighs, chasing his own pleasure: slick pressure on his cock, tension in his stomach and groin, the flood of heat and electrical prickles. Aziraphale sobbed, twisting and shaking, unable even to beg for release. His cunt throbbed around Crowley, and Crowley pulled out, ignoring Aziraphale's cry of distress. "No, you don't," he said, and took his cock in hand, stroking himself, shaking with affection, lust, and the electric buzz growing in his spine, until the tension snapped and he came over Aziraphale's torso, struggling to stay upright. The pale lines of semen streaked the angel's pink-flushed skin, as silver-white as his hair, sliding slowly down his stomach in beads. Crowley wanted to tattoo it onto him.

He gathered up his come on his fingers, and slipped them into Aziraphale's mouth, wiped come down Aziraphale's chin. Aziraphale looked dazed, his eyes unfocused. "Do you think I'm going to forgive you for tempting me?" Crowley said, softly, in his ear. He gathered more come from Aziraphale's stomach, fed it to him. "I might keep you like this, hard for me, beyond speech. Teach you a lesson." He reached down and fingered Aziraphale's cunt, then ran the back of his hand up his cock. Aziraphale whimpered, and Crowley bent to lick his own come from Aziraphale's chin. He could taste himself, the bitter herbal flavor of the aftershave balm, sweat, Aziraphale's skin. "Maybe I'll shave you bare, angel, and come on you again, let you feel me that way." He traced circles through Aziraphale's chest hair. "Rub it into your skin, make you smell like me, so everyone will know who's had you." 

Aziraphale arched, seeking Crowley's touch, still unable to speak. Crowley tugged on his head-feathers, gently. "You took your punishment so well," he said. "I think I'll reward you." He nosed Aziraphale's ear, nipped the lobe. "I'm going to kiss you, angel, and you're going to come when I do." 

He tightened his fingers in the head-feathers and breathed above Aziraphale's open mouth, not touching, not yet; he slid his other hand to the feathers surrounding Aziraphale's cock and scratched through them. Aziraphale jerked under him as Crowley let his fingers part in a V around the base of Aziraphale's cock, the slightest of pressures. Crowley lowered his head, let his tongue touch Aziraphale's lips, and then kissed him, hard, clenching both hands in the delicate swirls of feathers as he did so.

Aziraphale cried out against Crowley's mouth, and his entire body convulsed upward: his hands flew to Crowley's arms and held on tight, his hips seized against Crowley's grip. His come spattered against Crowley's arm and ribs, and Crowley moved his hand, laid it soothingly over Aziraphale's hip. Aziraphale collapsed back into the chair, chest heaving. Crowley kissed the side of his neck, kissed the tears from his eyelashes, stroked back the feathers that were stuck to his forehead with sweat. "Angel?"

"Good Lord," Aziraphale said, faintly, blinking up at him. 

"Not Her," Crowley said, and then, "I hope you don't let your barber do that to you." 

"I must say, he's never seemed inclined to oblige those particular desires." (Clearly, Crowley hadn't wrecked him enough, if he was able to talk like that, barely two minutes post-orgasm. He resolved to do better next time.) Crowley wedged himself into the chair, half-on Aziraphale, and went back to stroking Aziraphale's head-feathers. 

"Had these desires a while, have you," he asked, ripped-open and tender, almost drowning in affection and contentment. Aziraphale sighed and pressed his face to Crowley's chest. He was a mess: smeared with come and sweat, bruises where Crowley had gripped him, scratch-marks.  _ Missing a bite mark,  _ Crowley thought,  _ something else for next time. _

"I've been flirting with you for at _ least _ two thousand years," Aziraphale said, tartly, although the effect was somewhat smothered; he hadn't bothered to lift his face from Crowley's chest. He sighed again, and rested one hand on Crowley's hip, thumb stroking over the jut of bone.

"You haven't," Crowley said, thinking about the curve of Aziraphale's smile in Rome, his lips wet with wine and oyster brine. "It won't be two thousand years for another few decades yet." Aziraphale made a disgruntled noise, but subsided when Crowley ran fingers down his side, over the curve of his stomach. “I like your body,” Crowley said, softly.

Aziraphale laughed. “Do you know, I'd gotten that impression?" He looked up at Crowley, his face open and happy.

Crowley drew patterns on Aziraphale’s chest with one long finger, trying not to smile too broadly."So. Planning to make good on almost-two millennia of flirting, angel?" 

Aziraphale blushed. "Well. If you like, my dear. I wouldn't want you to do anything you don't want to--"

Crowley bent and kissed him, as sweetly as he could (given that he was, in fact, a demon, and not naturally given to sweetness). When he broke the kiss, Aziraphale smiled up at him, the flush back in his cheeks.. "I suppose you'll just have to tempt me into it," Crowley said. 

**Author's Note:**

> Always negotiate your D/s, unless you are, like these two fools, ancient supernatural entities who know each other very, very well and are used to communicating without actually, you know, communicating. To some degree, inspired by this meta: <https://owlboy.dreamwidth.org/2258536.html>
> 
> I've touched a lot of birds, but never one with the feathers like Aziraphale has on his head. They're more like kiwi or emu feathers than they are like single-filament dinosaur protofeathers, but they're not really like either. This is my Watsonian explanation for why TV!Aziraphale has those weird dark roots and the same hairstyle all throughout history: feathers just do that, what the heck.
> 
> The title comes from A.E. Housman's "A Shropshire Lad": 
> 
> _This long and sure-set liking,  
>  This boundless will to please,  
> \--Oh, you should live for ever  
> If there were help in these._
> 
> Summary and subtitle styling after Dr. Chuck Tingle, a hero for these bleak times. His unique way proves love, and so does yours.


End file.
